


Timing is Everything

by Sue_Clover



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Imelda processing what Miguel told her, Missing Scene, it matters, she thought he died old okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:48:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sue_Clover/pseuds/Sue_Clover
Summary: On the way to the Sunrise Spectacular, Imelda has an important question for Héctor.
Relationships: Héctor Rivera/Imelda Rivera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 168





	Timing is Everything

They wouldn’t all fit on Pepita, so the Riveras all climbed into a cable car. Most of them were talking with Miguel, formulating a plan to get into the Sunrise Spectacular. Imelda, however, could barely hear them over the roaring in her ears.

_Murdered. Murdered. He was murdered._ How many times had she imagined him dying an indulgent, comfortable death, surrounded by the people she had assumed he chose over her and Coco. But, _he tried to come home._ He tried to come home, but he was murdered. _By Ernesto de la Cruz._

Ernesto, who had been Héctor’s best friend for years before she met him. Who Héctor had always claimed as a brother. Ernesto, who was best man at their wedding.

Ernesto, who convinced Héctor to leave on tour after tour, each longer than the next. Who always seemed to resent Imelda, though he played up the charm when Héctor was in the room. Who went on to become famous, though he never deigned to return to his hometown. Famous enough that Imelda couldn’t help but hear of him, see his movie posters. That hideous mausoleum they buried him in. He was lauded in Santa Cecilia as the town’s most beloved son, but there was never any word of Héctor. No sign Ernesto had ever had a partner, though he’d been famous for years by the time of his death. She had never thought to ask why, only been grateful she didn’t have to see the face of the husband who had abandoned her. But… if Héctor had been killed by Ernesto, how early must it have been for no word of his existence to have reached Ernesto’s fans?

Imelda’s eyes sought her husband, and found him in a corner of the car, watching the rest of the family with a soft yearning in his eyes. She moved over to him.

“When?” The question burst out of her like juice from an overripe melon.

Héctor jumped, startled. “Qué?”

If she could have, Imelda would have blushed. She tried again, more coherently, this time. “Héctor, when…. When did you die?”

“Ah. He… he never told you, did he?”

She shook her head, and he chuckled bitterly. “Ay, that explains a lot.” He looked away, rubbing his arm. “1921.”

Imelda felt the breath punch out of her as though from a blow, even though she was expecting it, even though she didn’t need to breathe. It still hurt. “That’s when - that was when the letters stopped. I thought...”

Héctor just looked at her knowingly. He knew what she had thought. She’d hurled it at him enough times, in accusation. Almost enough that he believed it, himself. _This is my fault,_ he had said.

Imelda could hardly fathom what this meant. All these years - she had been angry from the start, that he had left _again_ after she had begged him not to, to stay at home this time. Said that Coco needed him. That she did. And he did leave, and that still hurt. But he did not intend to leave forever. He had left her alone to raise Coco, it was true, but not for as long as she’d thought. Not purposely, at least. How was she supposed to feel about that? He still left.

“I…” she began, but didn’t know how to finish.

He was looking at her searchingly. She hated the hope in his eyes. Hated that it was so fragile, and that it felt like her fault. It _wasn’t_ , was it? What did she owe him, anyway, after all this time? Aside from what she was about to do for him.

“We should go help with the plan,” she said brusquely. She walked away from him, toward the cluster of their family, and did not look back. She felt him, though, when he moved to follow her. It was like a missing piece clicking into place, at once an unnerving and comforting feeling.

Imelda tried to put aside her thoughts on murder and lost time, shelving her conflicting feelings. What did it matter when he died, when he had already left? She had to look forward.

She knew, though. Deep down, she knew. It made all the difference in the world.


End file.
